


bedroom hymns

by Nebbles



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Church Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, i'd apologize seteth but am i really sorry, slight body worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24310237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebbles/pseuds/Nebbles
Summary: It's not as if Seteth desires for this affair to be held elsewhere other than the cathedral, where he and Aelfric can worship another in other ways.
Relationships: Alphard | Aelfric Dahlman/Seteth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	bedroom hymns

Never did Seteth imagine himself to worship the Goddess in such a way.

That’s to say it’s her name that falls from his lips, but they do not reach the heavens; they echo through the cathedral in fervent whispers for the man whose hands roam down his bare chest.

Moonlight reflects through stained glass windows from across the hallowed halls, bathing the pair in refracted, pale colors that only dim when a stray cloud passes through the night sky.

This is not their first meeting, and he hardly imagines it is the last. Not when they have chased pleasure with another, under the watchful eye of the Goddess, who stares down at them as he is pressed against the statute of Saint Cichol.

Aelfric does not know his true identity, or why he enjoys losing himself to desire in such a way. 

“Seteth,” hot breath whispers against his ear, “to what pleasures do I owe you returning to me so often?”

“The Goddess rewards those who serve her well,” he answers, heart somewhere in his throat, hands pressed against the other’s chest, “and I am simply here to enjoy such matters.”

Would the Goddess reward such acts in the cathedral? Seteth hardly knows, and the thoughts are straying further from his mind as Aelfric’s hands drift lower.

“Relax.” Aelfric’s voice is like honey, warm and sweet. “I am here to serve only one person tonight, and it is you.”

Oh, does that voice do terrible things to him, to make him want and to further commit heresy, to desecrate a holy place. They’ve already met here, more than once -- pressed up against pews, the podium, any place that was deemed acceptable.

Worship Saint Cichol, he wishes to say, tell me that you desire myself more than the Goddess.

But to be higher than the Goddess herself is the only sacrilege Seteth cannot make himself commit.

The rest of his thoughts melt away when warm lips ghost down his jaw, each kiss laden with desire. Seteth’s head tilts back against the pedestal, and familiar eyes look down at his.

Most of their clothes lay in a haphazard pile, barely anything left between them as friction builds between their hips, low moans rumbling from Seteth’s throat as Aelfric’s body rolls against his.

Frantic hands search for a tether, something to focus on as ecstasy washes over him like a wave, crashing down upon his senses. Aelfric’s lips meet his own once more, and Seteth’s gladly part, wanting hands settling in his hair. His tongue sweeps over a glint of fangs, the sensation enough to earn a moan breathed into Seteth’s mouth. Nails dig further against him, Seteth not offering a moment’s hesitation as he explores Aelfric’s mouth in kind.

It’s familiar territory at this point, but one he never minds to relearn.

To why they continue to meet in the cathedral, Seteth cannot find an answer, and wonders why he tries to think the more he tastes Aelfric. The risk should not be worth this level of heat, this pleasure, but to think they could enjoy another in a place of worship…

Any other thoughts in his mind are nothing but wisps on the wind when dulcet tones whisper against his ear once more, a prayer to the Goddess accentuated by another roll of his hips.

“Perhaps I should offer piety to the Saints,” the hand splayed against his stomach dares to travel lower, “as they are the ones watching us tonight.”

It’s rare Seteth finds himself so tongue tied, but Aelfric’s voice dares to ruin him. Oh, does he desire it so enough to run such risks in this late hour. 

“Perhaps you shall,” is what Seteth is able to work out, face overrun with flush as his hips jerk slightly, desiring his hand to meet him in such a way. 

A small smile works itself onto Aelfric’s lips as his hand trails to the waistband of Seteth’s underwear, teasing, not fulfilling desires just yet. A hitch of the breath nearly echoes in the still air as it rubs against the bulge in between his legs, tumbling into a needy moan afterward. He’s felt this touch so many times, and it still can fill him with such blind desire.

It’s when he hears words that praise Saint Cichol does a shakier cry work its way into the night, the palm of Aelfric’s hand meeting him with further heat. 

“What would he think, Seteth, were he to see us in such an act under his watch?”

He would desire you, and nothing else. Your touch, your heat, you. He would not muddle his words nor thoughts and lose himself to unknown pleasures.

But those words cannot be spoken aloud, and half-lidded eyes, laden with lust, meet the other man’s.

“Or is it better to not mettle with the thoughts of those above us, and to revel in our own?” Warm breath continues to tickle his ear before deft fingers slip below his waistband, and he’s never been more thankful for the contact.

Aelfric’s lips are careful not to leave marks, and more prayers are whispered against him alongside gentle strokes of his length, and it is unfair how it sends heat straight into his stomach. He recounts the first instance he’s heard this prayer breathed into the cathedral, and now he shall associate it with nothing but reverent touches.

Seteth’s eyes flutter shut, chasing out irrelevant thoughts, shakily whispering a name he never dared imagine would leave his lips with such frequency.

It feels nothing but wonderful, and they are only at the beginning.

His hips roll up with each stroke, glad to have such warm touches be his reward for doing so. In response, his legs slightly spread as well, as if he is not obvious enough in his desires.

“Patience,” is what is whispered against his flushed skin, “I have not had you in a while. We must enjoy each other, Seteth.”

“Forgive me,” his voice wavers with another moan, “I am not one to lose myself in greed. I would be remiss--ah!--to ruin such a moment.”

Formalities - even they must be kept up in such increased heat.

It’s as if that sharp cry is what Aelfric needed to move his hand faster, his other hand tightly wound in Seteth’s hair. 

For a moment, they are bathed in silver as moonlight pours forth through the distant windows, and Seteth has never found Aelfric so desirable. 

Had they been against the podium, as in times past, they would have been under the light of the Goddess herself. Slivers of moonlight shall suffice, Seteth tells himself, gasping out as the head of his length is brushed over.

It’s rather hard to offer a prayer back of his own, even if he’s wishing to whisper one in turn. From the look Aelfric offers him, he supposes the noises he makes are more than enough. Back pressed against the cool marble of the pedestal his visage resides on, iridescent eyes glittering with gold staring down upon the pair, Aelfric’s name leaves him once again in a breathy cry.

Little does the chill help to dissuade the heat traveling down his body as more kisses are pressed to his throat, the strokes picking up in pace. 

“Do you have any preferences?” Aelfric’s lips are close to his ear once more, “shall I press you against the pedestal, or perhaps the floor?”

It’s almost hard to formulate a coherent reply, much less muse on which method of heresy would provide him further pleasure. What would be easier to erase such evidence of, to hide the morning after and act as if these meetings are nothing of mere fantasy, buried in the recesses of his mind?

To scrub the podium tirelessly is routine at this point, as well as the shame that comes after it. Would those feelings follow if he were to repeat said actions with familiar gazes, cold with judgment, boring down upon him?

Yet, to have already thought of desecrating himself further, Seteth feels himself almost twitch in agony, in want, as that hand continues to do awful, yet wonderful things to his body.

“Press me against the pedestal,” is what leaves him in an almost hurried breath, “do with me what you will.”

Not even does a moment of hesitation pass for a low purr to whisper in the curve of his ear, “I was hoping you would prefer that.”

It’s almost a shame for Aelfric’s hand to leave him as the rest of their clothing are discarded, as lust hazed eyes trail his every movement. Such preparations are needed, Seteth reminds himself, now coated fingers trail back to his thighs. He needs not remind himself to relax, and steadies himself as a finger presses around his entrance. It follows the soft hitch of his breath, working its way further in, all thoughts of any further matters erased from his mind.

Seteth almost wonders if Aelfric knows, the way he hears a sermon praising Saint Cichol murmuring in his ear, the way it accompanies the curl of his finger. He could chalk it up to how he reacts upon hearing such words, undone in such a manner, his moans echoing through the cathedral.

“I question what made you choose such a location,” the second finger causes a louder gasp of pleasure, “but I will leave such wonders up to the Goddess.”

No explanation in the world can quite explain why the pleasure here feels better than before, perhaps better than the first time they’d met in such a way. Mayhaps it is a wonder to leave it to the Goddess herself, even if she were to judge him for this sin.

They could have strayed to Abyss, to meet in Aelfric’s chambers once a moon instead of risking their reputations with each moan, each roll of their hips. Neither of them are ones to seek thrill from a public act, but it’s the pleasure that matters first, somehow.

“Would you care for more?” Aelfric’s voice wavers as well, albeit slightly as both fingers curl, “you appear needier than usual.”

He does not voice why, and just supplies with a curt nod.

It’s the third finger that gets Seteth to cry out his name louder, teeth grit together as his hips buck in response. 

A faint haze creeps into his mind, shutting out worries, ones that continue to warn him of the risks. Of his reputation, teetering upon a precipice of pleasure, waiting for an errant whisper of a rumor. How quickly would that spell his downfall, a member of the church -- one who is the second in command of the archbishop, nonetheless -- to seek such worship this way.

He hardly registers the next words murmured into his ears, and melts further against Aelfric’s fingers, so warm and good, brushing against that one spot that continues to send further heat into his stomach. Something of a whimper leaves him when they press in deeper, and Seteth hardly bothers to hide it. 

After all, what is there to hide, especially when Aelfric’s eyes look upon him in this manner?

It’s easier to focus on this, on him, on every touch that rewards the simple sin of greed.

The next gasp he dares to take is caught in his throat as Aelfric's fingers leave him, brushing against his thighs, coaxing one around his waist. Anticipation rushes down his spine like a river, coursing through his veins, as if this isn't a dance the pair often finds themselves in. Seteth only hopes the lust tracing half-lidded eyes is not too obvious as he's wrapped around Aelfric. 

Little is there a need to exchange words, to ask if he is ready as Aelfric coats himself before he presses against Seteth's entrance, eases himself in.

“Out of all the secrets I have kept,” a faint whisper, alongside a roll of his hips, “you may be my favorite.”

Secrets are something Seteth’s rather used to; keeping them is a talent he’s attained over the years. Hiding his identity, those of Flayn and Rhea’s, making sure nothing slips beneath the cracks. He’s prided himself on this, to have an unrivaled poker face whenever Cichol and Cethleann are mentioned, as well as Seiros, and is able to speak of them as if they are nothing but bygone days. Almost, the thought passes of how the others would feel, of how they would judge with cold fire in their gazes if they had any knowledge.

He can only hope he continues to keep this secret as well, to never lose the white-hot pleasure it brings.

Another soft cry fills the night air, Seteth’s legs tightly wrapped around the other with a fervent urge to have their hips meet.

Seteth tangles his fingers deeper into Aelfric’s hair, nearly desperate to keep himself close to the other man, needing more, wanting nothing more than to enjoy how full the other man makes him feel. Perhaps there is irony to be found in a saint seeking such guidance, such warmth from a human -- how does it reflect upon him? Does he care to think of how this makes him look?

To be so insatiable, to crave further pleasure, to crave what the Goddess cannot offer him and what only Aelfric can -- is such blasphemy a feeling Seteth is able to admit without shame?

The hands that roam over his body are slow, intricate, sweeping over every contour of his body. Meticulous fingers brush against hardened muscle with knowledge of what works, what elicits louder moans, what gets Seteth’s body hotter.

With eyes wrenched shut in ecstasy, nothing but stars bleeding into his vision, Seteth does not have to face judgment from those above.

The stars burn brighter as a harsher thrust is given, one that dares him to yell Aelfric’s name into the cathedral’s tall ceilings, wrapping around its columns and melting into the night. Were the other not holding him with such intensity, could Seteth give into greed and be touched… 

Could he perhaps sink lower, and beg?

“Aelfric,” he can hardly recognize his voice, how uncharacteristic it is of him, “I know this is--” He swallows thickly, barely coherent, “I--” 

It’s not as if he needs further speech, however. Desires are met as a strong arm wraps tightly around his waist, languid fingers wrapping around his length, continuing earlier strokes, matching up in rhythm with his hips.

It’s all Seteth needs to lose himself in full in pleasure, all he needs for the world to be them and nothing else.

Words are lost to the pair (Seteth does not know if he wishes to call them lovers) as their movements grow faster, more erratic, seeking out nothing but each other.

Each one carries them closer to the edge--this lapse of judgment, as others would call it--for their meeting to come to its peak. At this moment, the world cannot offer its scorn. It’s only them, it’s only this heat, it’s only--

Seteth’s mind is overcome with searing heat as he’s pushed over the edge, and spills himself onto Aelfric’s hand and chest. Harsher thrusts are given until Aelfric’s release follows, and the feeling sends Seteth’s nerves alight. It’s familiar, but it’s good, it’s so good. It’s better than it should be.

Shame often comes after the afterglow -- and more so, it never lasts, not enough to deny future meetings. Seteth can't find himself enjoying the bliss after such a release, or to look upon Aelfric in the way a lover would admire their partner after a moment's intimacy. All there is to think of is what he's committed, how he's thought to dirty the cathedral further in a selfish act, desiring nothing else but to taste the heavens.

Seteth catches his breath, coming down from such a wonderful high--it is rather pointless to lie to himself--as unsteady feet find their way upon the ground once more. An averted gaze trails to the floor, not watching as Aelfric cleans himself of any evidence of their little affair. 

Another routine follows: thoughts of horror seep into his mind now, chilling his bones. What would happen to the reputation he's built, were this no longer a secret? Had Lady Rhea discovered this, had she known what preceded the end of each moon...

To think a man strict as himself, who would chide others on decorum and presentation, allows this to continue. It’s not as if he and Aelfric are lovers (he keeps telling himself this, searching for excuses) who are simply aiming to spice up their love life. Once more, he tells himself they could meet elsewhere, somewhere with less risk.

But why don’t they?

"We should be on our way soon," he starts, acting as if his voice wasn't calling out to the heavens moments ago, "it would be rather troublesome, were others to spot us." It’s the understatement of the year, perhaps even the century, but Seteth doesn’t need to harp on that.

At least there's no mess to clean this time. It does little to ease the bubbling shame in his stomach, but it’s something.

There's a hollow, dull ache creeping up his thighs that cause them to cry out as he finally opts to dress himself, putting together the image of a composed man, one who has no secrets to hide, one whose reputation is clear as the morning sky.

Some sort of lie will be concocted to excuse why his strides are stilted tomorrow, as to why a small wince follows. It’s rather fortunate he’s skilled at hiding information--even if it is better served to protect lives--to avoid further questioning. 

Almost, Seteth tells himself, he is unfit to serve the Goddess. 

When his and Aelfric’s gazes meet once more, he finds it unreadable, and cannot help but wonder what Sitri would have thought. 

But that is not his place to wonder. 

“Will I be seeing you again?” It’s a simple question Aelfric asks, arms calmly folded behind his back, before he is to disappear into Abyss once more.

“We shall see.” Seteth answers, still unable to meet his eyes.

As Aelfric’s footsteps fade into the moonlight, it pours over hands clasped together, following the fervent whispers of a man begging for forgiveness, even if he does not think it is earned.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter @thatnebbles to hear about more fire emblem ramblings, suggest fic prompts, see wips and more! thanks for reading and supporting my work!


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